Stanley Klepp deceased (3)
By Simon Barget
- 1252 reads
With the locksmith affixing an unruly crossmesh of gaffer tape to the more vulnerable parts of the door frame, it was now time for Parkash to alert the authorities
, and though he was well versed in practical matters, having resolved all manner of thorny issue during his tenure as porter, he’d never had to take care of a sudden death. He felt a burden of pressure to get it right, mingled with a flicker of trepidation at what might happen next, bordering almost on excitement. First priority was to deal with the body and in a fog of urgency he dialled 999; he must have expected, in that vague sense that enshrouds us when we’re not sure what to do next, that Klepp’s body would be seamlessly swept away to Northwick Park Hospital, stored somewhere near the basement, and then retrieved just before burial. But once privy to all the ins-and-outs of the case, and after establishing with some certainty that the man was in fact dead -- Parkash had had to go back up to Klepp’s flat, palm the flesh of the left shoulder to deliver a rough temperature reading, feel out for any pulse, all of which measures were absurd as you could just know from a distance that this body had been dead for some time, go back down to his flat to call up and speak to another operator because he’d been cut off from the first one -- he’d not wanted to use Klepp’s phone due to its proximity to the bedside table and thus the body -- forced to recount the situation in full once again, and reassure her that he’d just been through the vital signs checklist with another operator -- she referred to Klepp hereinafter as the deceased -- and that he could now declare with an even greater degree of certainty than that which he’d held before that the deceased was in fact deceased -- this second operator just slackly put forward that the usual procedure was to call the GP. Parkash knew immediately that there’d be no one around on a Sunday evening and pointed this out politely but firmly; (was she really suggesting they just leave it until the morning?), to which the operator produced a grunt acknowledging the stating of the obvious, as if she’d been the one to provide the insight with Parkash repeating it for the benefit of his wisdom only; so she gave him a number for the out-of-hours service who should be able to help, this final sentence enunciated without the slightest hint of urgency or conviction designed to disguise its speculative nature and having the exact tone Parkash didn’t want to hear when trying to deal with a body that had been lying dead, in all probability, for two days. Nonetheless he was a credulous man, fortunate enough to be able to draw upon a wellspring of patience at will, so taking a short breath and accepting the import of the words whilst discarding their flaccidity, put the phone down to call the hotline; result: a qualified practitioner would be round in an hour.
More confusion arose however when this first doctor turned up. Examining the body carefully, respectfully, thumbing the flesh with the deftest of touches of his young hands -- Parkash noted the severe purple discoloration of the blood that had pooled at the sides of the neck as the doctor remarked on it -- replacing the blanket with care in the exact position he’d found it, still keeping the head uncovered, he first repeated back to Parkash what Parkash had just told him; so he’d discovered the body a few hours ago through the lady in Flat 3 who’d reported a beeping sound which was still on when you went in, you don’t think he has any relatives, you don’t know whether he’s been ill, you can’t remember when you last saw him alive, and you don’t know who his GP is and after Parkash had verified all of this, always maintaining his helpful stance; he didn’t know the name of his GP but he thinks he went to the medical practice down the road in Forty Avenue so that finding out shouldn’t be a problem, he took the opportunity to tell the doctor about the man and not just the body: he’d moved in five years ago after his wife had died; he was reclusive; he hadn’t known him to associate with a single human being save from bickering time to time with Mrs Knowlesworthy over the volume of his classical music; he’d been up a handful of times just to help him out with his TV where he hadn’t mentioned any family save his late wife which all favoured that he had no living relations or at least ones he was sufficiently close to. Parkash hadn’t actually seen him for about six weeks, last time was in the lobby he thinks; he read a lot of books aside from his love of music. So you haven’t contacted anyone the doctor asked, no, aside from you and the emergency services, no one; I really didn’t know who to speak to, he said. There then ensued a brief discussion around all of this; both men walking back and forth between various vantage points around the bed, keeping both a safe distance between themselves, and between themselves and Klepp, as if the latter might suddenly rise bolt upright to deliver a stern pronouncement on any factual inaccuracy; physiologically, all that could be known was that rigor mortis had passed already as the muscles were flaccid, there was no sign of putrefaction as the body usually went green and the room was cold and ventilated anyway, so the doctor didn’t expect it to occur for a while, and also the noise of alarm clock indicated the time of death to some degree of accuracy, since it was unlikely that Klepp wouldn’t have turned it off whilst alive, not impossible, as Parkash astutely remarked, and at which hypothesis the doctor didn’t demur, that he could have been too weak to reach it. It’s not unusual to die of old age, said the doctor, but it is unusual that he just died in his room without contacting his doctor or going to hospital, very strange, and Parkash confessed that he’d thought exactly the same thing. To the doctor’s final inquiry into his health when he’d last seen him in the lobby: oh yes, certainly mobile, walking normally as always, slight with his normal vigorous and vital look about him, almost, he would venture to say, that that look was testy and defiant.
Off the back of this extensive digging, the punctilious doctor gave out his conclusion. Although it was most likely that Klepp had died of natural causes, he wouldn’t be able to certify the death himself as it hadn’t been foreseen, therefore he was obligated to report it to the Coroner who would almost certainly order a post-mortem. Parkash looked a little bit bemused at this revelation, perhaps even forlorn; the thought of Klepp cut up and bored into made him wrench inwardly in disgust, fortunately there was no family to bear the displeasure of this awful image, and though the doctor was now in full flow, the reaction didn’t pass him by, so he emphasised, as if offering the commensurate amount of solemn and measured sympathy to which Parkash was vicariously entitled as proxy next of kin, that there was no suggestion of anything untoward, nothing more than an unexpected heart attack, the way it worked was that in order to be able to sign the MCCD or the Medical Certificate of Cause of Death he would have had to have been the person who’d attended Klepp within the 14 days leading up to his death or alternatively be sufficiently certain of the cause of death right now, so the right person to contact was his GP, but he could always understand people’s reticence to an autopsy. As it was just past 6 o’ clock on a Sunday night, the Coroner’s office, which was now at the local court, would be closed, so he’d find a contact number for Klepp’s GP and arrange for him to call Parkash in the morning, there was nothing further to be done tonight and providing the door could be resecured -- the locksmith had just finished putting up a garden-shed-style hasp and staple lock with a large padlock -- and despite the inadequacy and inconvenience of the recommendation, he assured Parkash that they’d get the body removed by tomorrow lunchtime.
So, though still not left with a completely clear idea of next steps, concerned that the body could start to rot at any moment, then wondering that if his wife had still been with him whether there’d still have been a recommendation for the body to remain in the same bed where he was about to go to sleep, although he realised that he’d have taken her to hospital in the first place, Parkash slept well that night, and he’d already been up for a good hour or so when he received a call at 8:30 from a well-spoken but brusque lady with a jumpy voice: a ‘Dr. Last’. Parkash paused just an instant and she realised that he’d been thrown by her gender, so she stated, with emphasis, that she was Stanley Klepp’s GP and that she’d just been informed by the out-of-hours doctor that Mr. Klepp had passed away. Parkash was more relieved than he could have imagined, as if she were to be the real saviour of the situation; and he started to tell her who he was and set out his connection to the deceased when she rather cut him short, saying that she’d be round at 10am, and would be grateful if he could be there then to let her in. She was right on time, initially offering her condolences, she was very sorry to hear the news, and then expressing her shock and surprise at the suddenness of the whole thing. Although, flicking through a two-page print-out of Klepp’s most recent medical history, he’d presented with cold and flu symptoms on the 12th -- it was now the 27th -- there’d been no other complaint, she’d taken his pulse and blood pressure, all readings had been quite normal, he’d had a flu inoculation in October, he’d looked quite well and she hadn’t heard anything since, how he’d died within such a short space of time was really beyond her. Also for someone of his age to be living on the top floor without a lift was a little ridiculous, didn’t Parkash think, how did he manage? Parkash wisely treated the utterance more as rhetorical than genuinely inquisitive or even accusatory and offered words that mirrored its more benevolent intention; if he sensed that the doctor felt in some way responsible or negligent, he was resolved neither to think nor show it. What about the other residents, she asked, had they seen him? Flat 6 was empty, it had just been sold, Flat 4 as well and he hadn’t spoken to the young couple in Flat 2, but would do so. She then said that he was Jewish, she was Jewish too and that they’d have to contact the local Rabbi to arrange for a proper burial; had he mentioned anything about it to Parkash she asked, no, actually not, but he’d suspected from the surname that he was Jewish and he’d noticed the small rectangular scroll on the door post which he knew Jewish people were meant to put on the front door of their homes. The fact was she said, that there was an emphasis on the burial taking place as soon as possible after death, and he’d probably died on Friday as the other doctor had explained, and it was now Monday morning, plus the body could start to rot at any moment if she was frank; any further delay left her feeling uncomfortable, but she knew there’d have to be a post-mortem and she didn’t know how long this might take. Also, they might be able to take some of the burden off Parkash; it really shouldn’t be his responsibility to make all these arrangements for a man he’d hardly known. Perhaps he belonged to a local synagogue the closest one was Kenton or Wembley she thought, maybe they could have a brief look around the bedroom and the flat to see if there was an address book or telephone directory that might have names, surely he must have written them down, if not she could just google them on her phone, and she presumed from the flat’s tired decor that Klepp didn’t own one himself. She’d been absolutely right about the address book though and it wasn’t long before Parkash had delivered up a roughed-up old A6 size notepad which he’d found in the kitchen, as she waited in the bedroom and texted something on her iPhone; it was covered in a sort of rough fibrous blue card material, and when turning it open and momentarily conceiving himself as a detective making an important discovery, he soon expunged this boyish fantasy in favour of his default helpful, good-samaritan way of being and started to read through the paucity of names written in a scratchy scrawl. The elusive Rabbi was not one; he’d looked first under ‘R’, nothing under ‘S’ for synagogue, flicking back next to ‘L’ he happened to see John Lewis, and the Doctor’s own name herself, and under ‘P’ was an entry for ‘Stephen Pearson', Wembley council, three names completely crossed out so that they were illegible, and under ‘K’ nothing but an entry for ‘Leonard Kaminski’, walking in he asked if there was another word for Rabbi, as he continued to flick through, at which point she said they might as well just phone up all the synagogues; it would be quicker, to which he assented, but as Parkash went back to the kitchen to put the book back in its rightful place he spotted a lone piece of A4 paper on the breakfast bar which just hadn’t been there before. It was an invoice for Kelpp’s Wembley synagogue membership fees for 2011.
It turned out he’d been a member since his wedding in 1958 and since he was on the Funeral Expense Scheme, all burial fees would be taken care of; the receptionist went on that he needed now to contact the burial society of the United Synagogue, who’d look after everything; it was not a matter for the Rabbi. As Parkash returned to the bedroom with the good news, the sun poured strongly into the room catching the left edge of Klepp’s face, Parkash went over and pulled on the drawstring; no one had thought about closing the curtains since they’d found him. Last was now visibly flustered; she had to be back in the surgery for an 11am appointment and it was 10:50 already, she said she’d have to go now but would leave her number just in case she was needed. So by the time Parkash had got through to a Mr Freeman at the Burial Society -- she was already seeing her next patient – and Freeman thanked him for doing all that he had done so far and could reveal that Klepp’s wife had been buried in Willesden Cemetery and that he’d had the plot next to her reserved for him. All fees were paid for. What they’d do now, Mr Parkash, would be to send someone to watch the body, please could they have the exact address, and that he would personally call the Coroner to discuss when the funeral could take place. Parkash wanted to give him the number of Dr Last, but Freeman said he wouldn’t need it, only the Coroner’s was necessary and he had the details anyway, thank you. Lastly he reiterated they would take care of everything from here, no need to worry and they would let him know if he needed to be present at the Registrar’s Office when the death was registered.
The body was finally removed at midday and taken to Northwick Park Mortuary; the process had taken almost three whole days. Since Mr Freeman had been so persuasive, almost insistent, they’d managed to squeeze in the post-mortem for 3pm, meaning that the funeral could go ahead at 10am tomorrow, Tuesday at Willesden. It had struck Freeman as an afterthought that Parkash might want to be there so he left a message on his answer machine leaving the exact details and requesting his presence. Parkash didn’t so much as berate himself as reflect wistfully that he might have saved himself a lot of trouble if he’d just called Mr Freeman in the first place. In any case, his life could now return to a certain level of normalcy.
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Comments
I read the first few
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Yes it is long and you need
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Well done. I believe it was
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This is really good, it has
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